“Okay.”
That was an easy agreement. I expected him to argue.
It took barely five minutes to drive down to Monty’s. Sam swung onto the gravel road.
“I’m glad the alone time is helping,” he said softly. “You seem better already. Less on edge?”
I did feel less on edge, like I had a better grip on myself.
“I couldn’t sleep for shit,” I told Sam, “but I had a nice walk around town and ate the best meatloaf and mash on the planet.”
Sam frowned. “Meatloaf?”
“Yup. At the local diner. You have to try it next time.”
Sam stopped in front of the B&B and turned to me, giving me a puzzled look and a wobbly smile.
“I will.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Bye, Laurel.”
The evening was chilly, and as I rushed from the warm car to the B&B door, a shudder went through me.
To my disappointment, the house was empty. Monty must be working at the pub with Jordy today. It occurred to me to stop by, but pub two nights in a row? I was supposed to be charging my social batteries and catching up on quality alone time. Besides, that salad from the grocery store was waiting for me in the fridge. I ate it at the bar counter and went upstairs.
Determined to be good, I was in bed by nine with a tall glass of water and a book. I’d ordered all these introspective, poetic, artsy novellas, but they stayed in a tote in my bag. I didn’t have the energy for something intellectually challenging that was supposed to nourish my mind—not yet anyway. I found thecheesiest, sexiest romance on my e-reader, intent on turning off the outside world.
And nothing. I was tired as hell, my eyes itchy and limbs heavy, but I wasn’t sleepy in the least. The story couldn’t hold my attention. My mind bounced around from one dumb thought to an even dumber one.
Who wrote these books? Did they suffer from creative blocks as well, or did they just craft novel after novel like a modern-day shoemaker? Did shoemakers suffer from creative blocks?
Hey, this line of dialogue would be a great chorus. Too bad I couldn’t steal it. Or could I? Was it generic enough?Fuck!Was I so desperate that I actually considered plagiarism for a moment there?
Nope. Erase that. Never happened.
The truth was, I hadn’t written anything decent in a year. What if I’d never be able to write a good song again? I’d become my own jukebox, just replaying the same old shit over and over. My fans would turn on me. And one day, the cheapest tabloids would run photos of me hulking around in dirty clothes and with a drug-ravaged face.
The Pathetic Life of a Has-been.He was once the greatest rock star of his time. Where is he now?
The voices of the critics were always the loudest during the night. Why oh why did I have the juiciest lines memorized? I was “an artificial, fleeting sensation, violently inflated by the culturally incompetent masses,” my music “borrowed and recycled the same overcooked ingredients,” and my career would “flare brightly and implode, only to be replaced by another forgettable copycat.”
I imagined most of these people were failures themselves; otherwise, they would make their own music instead of tearing down mine. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be right. MaybeI was unoriginal. A fake. After all, nothing I’d tried to create during the past year was worth shit.
“You need rest, Laurel, physical and mental. You can’t expect your mind and body to keep performing without any fuel.”
I’d yelled at my therapist that I sure could! At the beginning of my career, I was able to play a three-hour gig, get drunk at a party, write genius music at four in the morning, and go to school at nine.
“Yes. And you’ve exhausted yourself completely.”
“Then why can’t I sleep, huh?” I asked the empty room.
I thought this would stop when the tour ended, but here I was, shattered but awake.
What the fuck was wrong with me? I was on vacation. I could finally relax. I had no obligations whatsoever for the upcoming month—I’d made sure of that. And whatever came later would be optional. This should be Zen, dammit.
I flopped around on the bed, kicking at the duvet. My big toe got stuck in an opening between two buttons, and I growled, wriggling my foot out.
